My Toughest Uncle

   
   "My Toughest Uncle"
   
   I don't get back to the Great White North often--what, am I Canadian?  I drink Canadian beer--if I can anyway; regardless, Pittsburgh Steel and all the rest.  Freaking Iron City Beer, having reverent reverie of Robin Hood Cream Ale, where I first found the word:  BUZZ!  Good for me.
   A heart transplant, two of a different kidney, and still kicking modest ass.  Awesome.  That's what I'm talking about!!!
   Survival.  The coyote.  Bad things.  Whatever.  The sublimity of survival.  The everlast and macho, Doc Holliday endurance to drink a pint of whiskey and get out of bed every morning.  Nobody knows save the ill and miserably sick.
   Look at you--you're in your fifties and still haven't had a colonoscopy.  Who are you?  You my friend, are special.  You got this.  But some don't.  Not their karmic faults.  Circumstance?  Chance? 
   The Kings die young, I heard a relative say.  Whatever.  I'm Irish:  "I drink; I smoke; I fight; I die."
   Just keep the icy cool, let the aqua blue flow over you--if that's your thing; otherwise, a green-hued Wicca version of willpower.  Still, you survive.  And of the fittest?  Come on man.
   Indeed, there are plenty of wiry gimps with a Colt .45 or blade unsheathed that can survive the most backwoods of card games and still come out with both kidneys, before a Mexican Gang steals your organs and sells them to the highest bidder.  No, not Trump--not yet; still, he seems to be honest, not wearing the mask of devilry, yet so falsely accused.